Water towers are an indelible part of the New York City skyscape. They are as New York as pigeons, pastrami, and “watch the closing doors.” Thanks once again to Bags for providing the picture.

I started out as just a Yankees fan. Back when I started watching baseball, in the early nineties, I had no desire to watch any game that did not involve my guys. If the Yankees weren’t in the playoffs, I wasn’t interested – who were all those people? I didn’t care what happened to them. I found out about important players on other teams during Yankee broadcasts, or when the Yankees played those teams, or not at all. I knew about as much about the National League as I did about synchronized swimming,

I guess that started to change in college, when thanks to a close freshman-year friend I watched a bunch of Mets games (this being 1999, they ended in agony and heartbreak). I would subsequently consider watching a Mets game if there weren’t any Yankees to be had. Fantasy baseball, which I haven’t done for a few years but enjoyed for a long while, was another expansion: I guessed if there was nothing else on, I might as well check out the Astros game and see how my guy Willie Taveras was doing (you laugh, but that guy was a sleeper pick in 2004. And never again).

The real leap, though, was when I started writing about baseball. I couldn’t be the subjective fan I used to be if I wanted anyone to take me seriously. But more to the point, I wanted to know everything that I could – I wanted to be knowledgeable and informed. And as I’m sure many of you are well aware, baseball is a great, great way to feed an obsessive streak. Even if you were to spend your entire life on it, there’d be much more to learn than you’d ever have time to digest. I’ve spent years and years catching up on the baseball I missed (whether because of my early disinterest in other teams, or because of my not having been born yet), but there is zero danger of my ever running out of material.

I bring this up because, while ten-plus years ago I would have been sad that I had no baseball to watch today, now I’m cheerfully typing with the Phillies-Houston game on in the background. I’m more looking forward to tonight’s Mets game, and more still to tomorrow’s Yankee game. But I’m just happy to have baseball, just like I was happy to watch the playoffs in 2008 despite their glaring lack of New York teams, to get a fix of a few more weeks. Twelve years ago if you’d told me I could only watch Yankees games, or only watch every other baseball game, I would’ve had a pretty easy choice. It’d still be easy now, but in the opposite direction. Turns out the Yankees were an excellent gateway drug.

 Doity Wahtuh Delights.

[Picture by Bags]

The great Clyde Stubblefield wants to get paid.

I’ll always love the underdog. The stars will receive their share of press, that’s a certainty, but I’m more interested in the backstories of baseball’s unwashed: the journeymen, the utility men, the eccentric characters in the back of the bullpen. Those are the guys I root for, the guys whose stories are of most interest to me.

Luis Ayala is this year’s Yankee underdog. If you could have predicted that Luis Ayala, 33-year-old right-hander, would make the 25-man Opening Day roster, then you should be using your predictive skills by purchasing as many lottery tickets as possible. I would have given Mark Prior, Sergio Mitre, Greg Golson, or Justin Maxwell far better chances of sticking with the Yankees for the start of the regular season. But they’re all back in the minor leagues, or with other teams, and Ayala is not. Somehow, he’s a Yankee.

Luis Ayala is not to be confused with Bobby Ayala, the stocky right-handed reliever who once pitched for the Mariners and faced the Yankees in that haunting 1995 American League Division Series. That Ayala once had one of the worst seasons in the history of modern day relief pitching; in 1998, he went 1-10 with a 7.29 ERA and allowed a cascade of 100 hits in 75 innings. He is long since retired, having last pitched in 1999 for the Cubs.

Luis Ayala is also not to be mistaken for Benny Ayala, an outfielder from an earlier generation who made his big league debut for the Mets in 1974. Benny earned a World Series ring as a backup flychaser with the 1983 champion Orioles. For the most part, Benny was a part-time outfielder who never achieved more than platoon status with the Mets, Cardinals, Orioles, and Indians, but was surprisingly popular because of his lyrical name. Mets fans, in particular, loved to yell out, “Benny Ayala!” as they mimicked Met broadcasters Bob Murphy and Lindsey Nelson. It became a rallying cry, of sorts, in some Westchester neighborhoods during the swinging seventies.

No, this is Luis Ayala, a native of Mexico, who has had a surprisingly decent six-year career as a middle reliever, forging a lifetime ERA of 3.67. After toiling in the Mexican League, Ayala was purchased by the old Montreal Expos after the start of the new millennium. He made it to the major leagues in 2003, a part of Frank Robinson’s pitching staff. Over his first four seasons with the Expos/Nationals, Ayala was highly effective, posting three seasons with ERAs below 3.00. He ranked among the best set-up relievers in the National League.

Like many relievers, Ayala’s fortunes fluctuated. He pitched so dreadfully for the Nationals during the first half of 2008 that they dumped him on the Mets for the infamous player to be named later. Ayala continued to pitch poorly for New York, which gladly allowed him to become a free agent at season’s end.

In 2009, Ayala pitched for Mexico in the World Baseball Classic, but was hit hard by the international opposition. Having signed with the Twins, Ayala threw mediocre ball for half a season; he requested a trade but instead drew his release. The Marlins picked him up, but watched him pitch horribly, posting an era of 11.74 in ten appearances. At the end of the season, the Marlins let him become a free agent once again, convinced that he had nothing left to offer at the age of 31.

Few could have blamed Ayala for calling it quits, but he stubbornly persisted in his belief that he could still pitch effectively at baseball‘s highest level. First he had to overcome a harrowing experience. In January of 2010, several gunmen emerged from three vehicles and invaded his home located near Los Mochis, Mexico. They shot down the door and handcuffed Ayala, who appeared to have been targeted as their kidnapping victim. Fortunately, police intervened and prevented Ayala from being abducted. Both Ayala and his family were unharmed.

Undeterred by the bizarre incident, Ayala went to spring training with the Dodgers. Over the course of 2010, he pitched for three different organizations, logged ineffective stints in each of their minor league systems, and failed to make it back to the big leagues with any of them. Without a single major league inning to his credit in 2010, it seemed obvious that Ayala should retire.

He didn’t. The Yankees signed him to a minor league contract, with an invite to spring camp in Tampa. Ayala pitched well almost every time out, permitting only one run in 11 innings spread over 11 appearances, with nine strikeouts and an ERA of 0.79. Still on the outside looking in, Ayala then watched Pedro Feliciano go down with an oblique strain and saw Mitre leave via a trade for spare outfielder Chris Dickerson. Against every imaginable odd, Luis Ayala earned the seventh spot in the bullpen and the final spot on the 25-man roster.

If you haven’t seen Ayala pitch, his delivery is a little weird, to put it kindly. He short-arms the ball, throwing from a semi-sidearm motion. Funky and awkward, It’s a bit painful to watch, and he doesn’t seem to be throwing the ball very hard, but hitters in the Grapefruit League hardly touched him during spring training.

I don’t know how long Ayala will remain in the Bronx, but I do know this: I’ll be rooting for him every time he steps onto the mound.

Bruce Markusen observes the Yankees from a perch in Cooperstown, NY.

I am fortunate to have a friend like Bags, a guy who likes to wander around with one of his many cameras and shoot the city. Today is dedicated to Bags. Keep ’em coming, Hoss, you make the Banter a richer place.

Let’s start with what a co-worker calls “brehfess.” Doughnut, anyone?

I’ve spent much of the past couple of seasons actively disliking Joba Chamberlain. Not personally, just his game. But just when I thought all was lost, he reported to camp heavy this spring, and now, he’s sporting longer hair, and you know what? I think I’m lovin’ me some Joba. Call me a contrarian–guilty–but hey, I’m the guy who loved Hurricane Hideki Irabu.

So, yo: Let’s Go Chubb Chubb!

[Photo Credit: AP Photo/Frank Franklin II]

Yesterday, Diane sent me this little piece on Christopher Walken from the New Yorker:

Walken doesn’t use a computer. “The Internet is strange,” he said. “There’s stuff on the Internet about me. I’ve tried to find out who puts it there. Something about how I go around to hot-dog festivals, that I’m a champion hot-dog eater.” Then, there’s the IMDB Web site, which says that Walken has a film “in production” called “Citizen Brando.” “I have no idea what that is.” He said he’d had a few encounters with Brando.

“Once, in the nineties, I was in Nova Scotia, doing a movie. It’s my day off, and I’m reading a book and the phone rings and this woman says, ‘Christopher Walken, are you going to be there in the next ten minutes? Marlon Brando would like to talk to you.’ I thought, This is one of my friends pulling my leg. So I said, ‘O.K.,’ and I hung up. And the phone rang again, and the second he spoke you could tell it was him. And Brando said, ‘I play the piano, you know.’ And I said, ‘No, I didn’t know that.’ And he said, ‘And I dance.’ He told me he wanted to put cameras in his house—he wanted to do a variety show out of his house. And I said, ‘Well, what can I do for you?’ He said, ‘You did this picture “Pennies from Heaven,” and I like the numbers in that. I want you to help me get in touch with the guy who did those.’ I told him it was Danny Daniels, the choreographer. Brando never did it, I guess. I’d certainly watch. Wouldn’t you?”

Perhaps my favorite Walken performance was in the movie version of Dennis Potter’s “Pennies From Heaven”–and if you’ve never seen the original TV series with Bob Hoskins, do yourself a favor and track it down. Dig this, it is sure to kick start your day:

Gotta love an Opening Day win, huh? Now, go grab a nosh, ya hoid?

[Picture by Bags]

After the long  winter we just had, I would have watched the game happy as a clam (well, a slightly grumpy clam) even if the Yanks had been blown out of the water. Instead, C.C. Sabathia pushed through a cold and slightly awkward start, the Yankees wore down Justin Verlander, Mark Teixeira and Curtis Granderson put in early bids for their bounceback years, and the Yanks started 2011 with a nice 6-3 win over the Tigers.

The game began with the soothing routine of Opening Day traditions – the introduction of both teams (which made me miss Bob Sheppard, suddenly and sharply – I especially wanted to hear him say “Luis Ayala”), the fighter-jet flyover – I heard them on their way back here in Brooklyn – and a first pitch thrown out by Mike Mussina, who is now literally an Old Graybeard, three years into his retirement. His pitch, if you were wondering, was a little high but reached the plate free and easy. I miss him too.

For his part, Sabathia wasn’t in his full-on dominant ace mode, but he fought through to a quality start. A bases-loaded sac fly to Jhonny Peralta got the Tigers on the board in the second, a Brandon Inge single scored Miguel Cabrera to make it 3-2 in the 4th, and messy inning that included a Robbie Cano error and a number of lucky bounces tied the game an inning later. The Yankees kept tacking on, though, while their pen shut Detroit down. If the Yankees are going to win a lot of games this year, I imagine this will be a familiar pattern.

There were lots of good signs today. The lineup at a whole showed the usual Yankee patience. The bullpen was just about perfect, including Joba and pricey newbie Rafael Soriano, and of course Mo – now rockin’ the high socks – was Mo. A-Rod hit a long double that might well have been a homer with different weather. Russell “Hustle” Martin singled, stole third, and later reached on a throwing error and scored on a short sac fly, good to see from a guy who was criticized by many, including himself, for his lack of focus in LA at times.

Granderson made at least three excellent plays in center, including a diving catch in the 1st and an over-the-shoulder beauty in the ninth, and I was wincing for his oblique but he seems to have come through just fine. Add to that his 7th-inning go-ahead home run, and he wins the game ball. Incidentally, the homer he hit in the 7th – a long one to the same are as mark Teixeria’s – was off Phil Coke, who was part of the trade that brought him here last year, and is now taking full advantage of the Tigers’ facial hair and grooming policies.

Fun fact: According to Ken Singleton, Brett Gardner invited Kevin Long over for Thanksgiving dinner this past year. Long had plans with his own family so couldn’t go, but: awww.

Welcome back, everyone.

Opening Day. It is cold and rainy in the Bronx but it today is Opening Day and there will be baseball. It’s been a long winter and I’ve waited months to clap my hands and say the following:

Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

[Photo Credit: Pictures for walls]

 Shuffle along to this and bop your head. Let’s get it going, live from the BX:

I materialize in a hallway. Not sure where I came from, and not sure where I am. Tall, skinny, pale blue lockers line the corridors. Teenagers pop into and out of focus at the perimeter of my vision. I’m vaguely aware that I shouldn’t be here, but the environment is familiar and uncomfortable. I am face to face with a locker and my hand spins in the combination with no input from my brain.

As the door opens to blackness, panic hits hard in the back of my neck and the residual heat spreads over my skull. No uniform. But wait, is there a game today? Is it even baseball season? And didn’t I graduate a long time ago?

I deal with the uniform first. Either my mom can bring it to the school or I can drive home during free period. A small risk perhaps, but most of the disciplinarians are looking to catch smokers, not naked ballplayers.

As soon as I conjure the solution, the uniform appears. That works too. Phew.

Next, I examine the weather and recall my most recent glimpse at the calendar. Yes, it is baseball season. It’s opening day, in fact. A whole, pristine season stretches out in front of me and all that’s left of the hot panic gushes out of me. In its place is joy.

But this cannot be my opening day, can it? I remember making a note that my opening days were all used up. But everything around me supports the alternative. It is my school, my locker, and my number 35 jersey slouching in my hands.

I must have been mistaken. I’ve got one more season left. In a few hours, school will end, and I’ll be shagging flies in left field as the sun sets behind the school gym.

Left field is the sun field at my home park. And for one inning of every game, I can’t see anything. If the ball gets hit to me, I have to hear it.

I’ve got to know what the pitcher’s got and what each batter can do with it so that I’m starting in the ball’s most likely landing spot. Then there’s the crack of the bat – is it true, is it solid? It would be great if the left-side infielders could help, but they’re mostly blinded too. The centerfielder is my best friend, whether he likes me or not, and he’ll help in two ways. He’ll yell “back” or “in,” and he’ll yell it with the appropriate inflection to communicate urgency. We’ve got good pitching; I almost never hear “BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!”

I’m standing there now, testing a brand new pair of sunglasses that my father brought home from a business trip Japan. Supposedly you can stare directly at the sun and still pick out a mosquito zipping across the sky. We’ll see in the fourth inning.

It’s almost my turn in the batter’s box. We don’t usually take batting practice before a game, but maybe it’s a special treat for opening day? Maybe we’ve been snowed in so long this spring that we need some extra reps versus a live arm? I don’t know, but I’m not going to question the un-reality of this detail – pull a thread like that and who knows what falls apart with it?

I swing the bat in the on deck circle. The batting practice pitcher is a god of accuracy, wasting neither time nor patience as he rifles through the lineup. I’m squeezing the handle, testing the weight of the bat, taking short, swift strokes and approaching home plate.

I’ve walked these 20 feet hundreds of times in reality and hundreds more in my dreams. I stare at the pitcher, take one more purposeful practice rip, and then I coil.

I’m ready for anything, even waking up, but I’m hoping for a fastball.

Ugly day out there for the start of baseball season. How’d you like to be a hitter facing Verlander or C.C. today? No matter, baseball begins and like Michael Kay at Mickey D’s, I’m lovin’ it.

For a series preview, check out our man Cliff doing his thing.

I was on the Sports Casters podcast last night–“Baseball Bonus Show #1”–talking “Lebowski” and Ken Burns, Todd Drew and the new baseball season. It was a great time, dig it if you have many minutes.

Eh, I just had “Shattered” on the brain.

Albert Brooks is now on Twitter and the world is a funnier place:

Rough night. took ambien. woke at 3A.M. had a turkey sandwich. this morning daughters parrot’s missing. I’m shitting feathers. coincidence?

6 hours ago Favorite Retweet Reply

AlbertBrooks Albert Brooks

Just finished Mein Kampf. Had no idea it was the same guy.

Thank you, Mr. Brooks.

Food and art collide at this sensational blog: scanwiches.com.

I question the wisdom of having Opening Day on a Thursday at 1 pm, when most people can’t watch it. But, since I’ll be working from home tomorrow, I don’t question it too hard – the sooner the better. The Knicks suck, I don’t have a horse in the NCAA tournament, football is all horrifying brain injuries and labor disputes. GET HERE ALREADY, BASEBALL.

I went on record yesterday as predicting the Yanks to finish a respectable 3rd in the AL East, though I’m not as pessimistic as that may sound; I expect them to be a good, competitive team, just maybe not quite good and competitive enough. On the plus side, I also have C.C. Sabathia and Robinson Cano in the top three for Cy Young and MVP, respectively. I think it’ll be an entertaining season, which is what I mostly care about,

Things I’m most looking forward to:

• Mariano Rivera. The one Yankee who is never overhyped, just that damn good.
• Curtis Granderson. Maybe I shouldn’t have bought into all the fuss about his improved swing at the end of last season (small sample size and all), but I did, and I’m looking for a big season from him this year. Even if that doesn’t happen, the guy is extremely likable, so he should be fun to root for.
• Robbie Cano. I don’t know if he’ll keep getting better – and that would be a lot to ask for since he’s already plenty good enough – but this is the first year, I think, that going in I’ve considered Cano to be a real first-tier star and not just a talented and promising youngster. A good second baseman who’s also a legit middle-of-the-lineup masher is a precious thing.
• A healthy A-Rod in, possibly, one of the last years he’s young enough to make that contract seem like a good one. I don’t think he’ll be bad or anything, going forward – just a bit diminished with age (and aren’t we all?). I know better than to read anything into spring training numbers, but let’s just say it looks like Rodriguez is feeling pretty good right now. And that makes me rub my hands together like an old movie villain.
• Brett Gardner. I keep waiting for him to crash back to earth… but maybe he won’t? Is he actually this good? How much more does he need to show before I start believing it?

There are also, of course, a few things I have a bad feeling about:

• Ivan Nova. See, I’m not including Freddy Garcia/Bartolo Colon here, because everyone expects a fifth starter to be lousy. But Nova is in a position where, if he can’t give the team at least a solidly mediocre start, those losses are going to hurt. I think Nova could be solid in a relief role but that six good innings from him on a regular basis is too much to ask for; but the thing that gives me hope here is that he’s only 24 and threw well at AAA last year. Still, I miss Pettitte already.
• Catcher/Backup catcher. Gustavo Molina is such an incredibly awful hitter that we will all rejoice when Francisco Cervelli turns up again, hopefully in a month or so. But then we will remember that – much as I like the guy’s effort and energy and persona – he can’t hit either, except as compared to Molina. That’s fine and dandy for a BUC, but meanwhile, Russell Martin is no Jorge Posada – not with the bat and, so far in his career at least, not with the work ethic. We’ve all been spoiled by watching a borderline Hall of Famer catch the last decade-plus, and I think we’re about to realize just how much.
• Joba. For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: “It might have been!”

This was a long damn winter. Good, bad, whatever, bring on the baseball. And if, like me, Little Orphan Annie isn’t really your style, try this: